Writing is Who I am

It usually starts with a smile.

A pause.

Then, casually — like asking how many sugars I take in my coffee — someone drops the line: 

“How do you write so much?”

They say it with interest.
Sometimes with awe.
Sometimes with the gentle disbelief reserved for people who do strange things voluntarily. Like running marathons in the rain. Or watching documentaries to relax.

I nod. I smile. I know the question isn’t new.

People notice patterns. They see the articles, the stories, the newsletters, the books. My name keeps floating up every now and then.

The natural assumption? I must have some secret formula. A quirky muse. Maybe an underground lab where I whisper ideas to my AI clone while sipping turmeric chai.

If only.

The truth is, I write because I like it. That’s it.
That’s the secret.
I like it.

Writing, for me, isn’t something I have to force. It’s not a tool I sharpen for performance. It’s not even some brave act of self-expression.

Writing is like breathing.

It’s like being in a hill station where the air feels clearer, the noise dims, and you remember how to be a person again. That’s what writing does for me.

Yes, there’s a process. A real one. There are index cards. Storyboarding. Showing up every single day — whether I feel profound or not.

People rarely want to credit the method or discipline. It’s easier to attribute it to magic. Or madness.

Some say, “I haven’t read everything but I love how consistent you are!” — the literary equivalent of, “I didn’t taste the food, but the presentation is stunning.”

Still, I appreciate it. Because attention — especially today — isn’t nothing.

Sometimes I want to answer with equal ambiguity: “I breathe in. I write out.” Or: “I wait till the hill air hits, and the sentences just arrive.” (Spoiler: I don’t live in the hills.)

The truth is I feel like writing often. It brings me back into focus. Some people go for walks. I chase paragraphs.

I’m not chasing greatness. Not trying to write like Nietzsche or Camus.
Not trying to impress. I write because it’s what I do. Because it’s what I’ve always done.

Now and then someone says, “You’re always writing,” as if it’s a condition I should monitor. As if one day a doctor will diagnose me with Excessive Creative Output Syndrome and prescribe rest, hydration, and no metaphors for a week.

But what they don’t see is that writing doesn’t drain me. It fills me.

That’s what people miss when they chase productivity hacks. They want content calendars, neat and colour-coded. But creative work — especially the kind rooted in human experience — doesn’t run on timelines. It runs on truth.

Of course, the DMs keep coming:
“Hey Janani, just wondering if you need help scaling your brand…”
I’m a trained counsellor, engineer, and personal branding expert. I didn’t ask for help. But unsolicited expertise thrives.

I nod, archive, and return to what matters — the work.

Not the visibility of it. Not the branding of it.
Just the quiet discipline of showing up for what feels real.

Of course, I don’t expect everyone to read everything I write. But it does amuse me how often people skip the piece but want to know how I wrote it. It’s like ignoring the movie but asking how the director framed the shots.

Once, someone asked what editing tool I use. I told them: “Mostly… my eyes.” Needless to say they were disappointed.

Another time, a friend texted: “I haven’t read the whole piece yet but HOW do you keep writing week after week?!” I replied, “Well, reading the piece might actually answer that.” She sent a laughing emoji. And didn’t read it.

Still, I hold no resentment.

I’m grateful for the question — even if it misses the heart of what I do. Because somewhere in that curiosity is a reminder that people are watching. Even if they’re not reading. Yet.

It’s not a job, even though I’ve made it one. It’s not therapy, though it often feels better than some. It’s not self-promotion. It’s self-return.

There are, of course, days when I don’t write. When I just want to scroll, eat toast, and be unremarkable. And I let myself. Because writing is not a chain I’m tied to. It’s a window I get to open.

Most days, though, I write. Not for algorithms. Not for applause.
Because something in me asks, gently — “Can we make sense of this?” And I answer, “Okay.”

So yes, I write often. I write publicly. Without waiting to feel genius. And when people ask how I do it, I give them a kind answer.

Because maybe what they’re really asking is:

Can I do it too?
What does it take to be honest out loud?
Will anyone care if I do?

To all of that, I say: yes. Yes. And yes — even if it’s just you.

And to the readers who not only read my latest book Fear Off Work but also every article, newsletter, and even poster captions — thank you. You are the reason my book marketing phase is fun. You notice the tone, the phrasing, even the background score. You tell me about the one word I paused on or the moment the music shifted. That’s my tribe.

This journey has been deeply rewarding.

Despite all the humour, I want to say this plainly: I have nothing but love and gratitude — for every curious question, for every kind message, and for you, the reader, who quietly builds me up and reminds me why I keep writing.

Thank you!

📖 If you enjoyed this piece, my latest book Fear Off Work dives into a very different world — the fears we carry into our careers, and how to break free from them. Buy it here → https://www.amazon.in/dp/B0FL7WWCH1

To check out my bibliography, please visit my amazon author page: https://www.amazon.in/stores/Janani-Srikanth/author/B0BTX2G413

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The Philosophy of Music #StressFreeJuly

 

In a world that rarely slows down, stress can become the background score to our lives.

We rush, respond, react—rarely pausing long enough to feel what’s really playing inside us.

But sometimes, it takes a familiar melody, a quiet instrumental, or a timeless Bach piece to remind us: music isn't just for filling silence. It can become a path to finding it.

As part of #StressFreeJuly, we’ve spoken of movement, rest, and digital detoxes. But there’s one gentle shift that’s often overlooked: listening to music—not passively, but completely. Not as background noise, but as a mirror.

The German philosopher Josef Pieper once said:

"Not only is music one of the most amazing and mysterious phenomena of all the world’s miranda, the things that make us wonder but music may be nothing but a secret philosophizing of the soul. Music prompts the philosopher’s continued interest because it is by its nature so close to the fundamentals of human existence."

This isn’t a poetic exaggeration. It’s a psychological truth.

Music, when truly absorbed, allows us to bypass the analytical mind. It bypasses the inner critic, the overthinking, the performance trap.

It meets us where we are, and slowly, wordlessly, helps us move somewhere softer.

Stress often stems from disconnection—from ourselves, from our feelings, from the present moment. But when you surrender to a song, especially one without lyrics, something shifts. You’re no longer trying to fix or solve your inner state. You're simply being with it. Feeling it. Allowing it to surface and move through.

Pieper calls this process a kind of “secret philosophizing of the soul.” You’re not consciously thinking deep thoughts. But somewhere within, you begin to reflect. You may find that a sorrow you've buried returns, not to harm but to release. You may notice that a fear, once tangled in your chest, softens under the weight of a cello or the clarity of a piano.

There’s no rule about which genre to choose. It could be a Bach fugue, a lo-fi instrumental, a movie soundtrack, or your childhood lullaby.

What matters is your presence. Listening not to distract yourself, but to meet yourself.

So this week, give yourself ten quiet minutes. No phone. No scrolling. Just music.

Sit with it. Let it move through the noise in your head.

Let it reach the part of you that words often can’t.

Because sometimes, the most powerful form of healing isn’t about doing more. It’s about hearing more—of yourself.

P.S. One of the stories in my latest book, 'A Connection Called Life' explores how a quiet moment of shared music can spark something meaningful. If you’ve ever found yourself changed by a single song, that story 'Musical Connections' might stay with you. Check it out here: https://amzn.in/d/6uBF7b9

Fear and Healing

I’m writing a series for #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth. Every Thursday this May, I’m exploring one theme that shapes how we live, feel, and function.

This week’s theme is fear—and how healing begins when we stop resisting it.

Not all fear announces itself. It doesn’t always arrive with racing thoughts or a pounding heart. Sometimes, fear wears the face of ambition. Sometimes, it hides behind control, perfectionism, overthinking, people-pleasing, or the need to stay endlessly busy.

Fear shows up when we avoid rest, delay hard conversations, or hold back joy just in case it doesn’t last.

If you look closely, you’ll see how much fear runs the show—without ever being named.

It sounds like:

 • “I can’t afford to mess this up.”

 • “What if they think I’m too much?”

 • “I don’t want to look like I can’t handle it.”

 • “Let me just finish this first, then I’ll focus on myself.”

We’ve normalized this kind of inner pressure. It can even look responsible. Productive.

But underneath, many of us are driven by a quiet anxiety: that we’re not enough, that we’ll fall behind, that something will collapse if we stop trying so hard.

How do we heal from this cycle?

Healing doesn’t start with grand gestures. 

It starts with quiet noticing.

Catching the moment your jaw clenches in disagreement. 

The reflex to apologize for something that wasn’t your fault. 

The urge to sabotage something good because you’re unsure you deserve it.

Healing is about becoming honest. It’s about recognizing what fear is trying to protect—and asking if that protection still serves you.

The intent is not to fix yourself—but to believe you’re allowed to feel safe in your own life.

Mental wellness doesn’t mean you’ll never be afraid. It means you’ll know how to recognize fear without obeying it. It means dropping the shame and getting curious about what’s beneath your patterns.

And maybe, instead of trying to outrun fear, you’ll begin to understand it.

You don’t owe the world a perfect version of yourself.

You owe yourself a life that feels steady, present, and honest.

And that's when healing begins!

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If this reflection resonated with you, my book Fear Off Life explores this exact journey—with real stories, practical insights, and the quiet permission to live more freely. Available now on Amazon: https://amzn.in/d/41k6CRh